


Strength in Numbers

by Achromos



Series: Someone Give Adam a Goddamn Hug (Or a Kiss) [1]
Category: Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Aug Incident Aftermath, Deus Ex Black Light, Deus Ex Children's Crusade, Drinking, Foreshadowing, Inspired by the trailers, M/M, POV First Person, Slow Build, Smoking, Snark, Spoilers for Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Bonding, Touch-Starved, filling the gaps, first in a series, most of the tags are for the future parts just so you know what to expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achromos/pseuds/Achromos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Adam Jensen struggles with the consequences of his actions. What he needs is friends, and to get a grip on his life. Faridah and the old SI gang help, a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I only recently finished playing DX:HR, but I've been consuming everything there is regarding material. This is inspired by the various trailers for Deus Ex: Mankind Divided, the Deus Ex: Children's Crusade comics and the little info we've got on the book supposed to do what I'm doing here, Deus Ex: Black Light, which is supposed to bridge from HR to MD. And cuz I shipped Adam/Frank as soon as I heard their snarky banter, that cover did things to my imagination, yeah. But because it says on the blurb that it's 2029, Adam wakes up and has trouble remembering, and I don't want to just leave out 2 years, I'm ignoring the fact he apparently fell into a coma or something. You'll see.
> 
> EDIT: I added a chapter to the count and also added the Adam/Frank relationship, because I realised I had to incorporate an additional scene in order for it all to make sense. So.
> 
> Song for this chapter is "Visions" by Stateless.  
>  _Because I can't stand my visions in sleep_  
>  _My mind just takes old visions and transforms_  
>  _Memories and waking dreams, tell_  
>  _All that we are, we are our maker's sins_

In the aftermath of Panchaea’s self-destruction and what was soon dubbed the Aug Incident, I felt like I was still floating face-down in the waters of the Arctic Ocean for months. Drifting without aim, weightless and removed from the world as if looking at it from behind layers upon layers of bulletproof glass, debris, blood and guilt.

I never told anyone, but when I pushed the button which would initiate Panchaea’s self-destruction sequence, I didn’t just think about the freedom of will and my belief in the good of humanity. I did think about that, and I told myself those were valid reasons, despite the high death count the subsequent explosion caused. It lessened the sting of guilt a little. Not enough, but a little.

But I also thought I wouldn’t survive the blast.

Waking up in a nondescript Canadian hospital had been a nightmare only secondary to the day I woke up in a body not my own. I struggled with my new arms, legs, eyes and organs after that. It didn’t compare to the post-Panchaea struggle with my mind, though.

Once the doctors declared me healthy enough to leave the hospital I returned to my dingy, un-lived-in apartment in Detroit. But with rising resistance against human augmentation technology and the markets in free-fall, Sarif Industries had all but crumbled until it had to declare insolvency. I was out of work and alone in a city that didn’t fit the shape I had grown into any longer.

For the first two or three weeks I didn’t mind so much, still caught up in the shock of surviving, and the events of the last months that led me here. I drank and smoked a lot, never once setting foot outside my apartment, instead blindly staring at the TV screen where more often than not Eliza Cassan’s face delivered the news, as always, “live from Picus”.

From time to time someone would ring the bell or knock, and I even got some infolink calls. I ignored them all. On my computer, dozens of messages started to pile up, until it seemed too much trouble to sift through them. Dozens turned into hundreds, and weeks turned into months. I had run out of booze and cigarettes long ago, and my apartment was in an even sorrier state than how it had been upon my miraculous return.

I don’t remember what it was that pulled me out of this stupor, I was so far gone. But for some reason, one day, I logged into my computer after all and stared at the latest message. It was from Faridah Malik, and I felt a pang of regret mixed with relief.

I had to close my eyes at the surge of emotions that came with remembering loyal, steadfast, no-nonsense Faridah. I had forgotten all about her in my egotistical self-pity binge. She must be worried.

_Hey spy boy,_ her message read. _I don’t know if you’re getting these, or if you’re reading them at all if you are. Just wanted you to know I’m still here if you wanna meet up and talk – or not talk, knowing you. Me and some of the old SI gang get together every first Thursday night of the month, at Betsy’s. You know the place. See you there sometime? – FM_

I did know the place, but I didn’t know the day or time. Finding out that it was 4am on the 1st of December came as quite the shock, and not just because it was a Wednesday, meaning that Faridah would be at Betsy’s tomorrow night. I hadn’t realized it was winter already, much less December. Christmas was going to be soon, and I hadn’t showered in who knew how long.

One thing led to another, and by lunchtime I was showered, dressed, shaved and clothed. Once I had sorted myself out some, my apartment no longer met my standards either. I started by pulling up the blinds, which revealed the true extent of decay I had housed in up until then. I continued by airing out the stuffy rooms, gathering all the dirty laundry and throwing them in the washer, making the bed, vacuuming the floors, doing the dishes and even unpacking some of the boxes which must have been standing there for over a year by now. At this point I was hungry enough to consider cooking, but the fridge only revealed a carton of sour milk, a moldy leftover slice of pizza and a bunch of potatoes which had grown roots. I grabbed all of it, threw it in the bin – which was overflowing – and made a mental grocery list.

Going outside came as a shock. The sunlight nearly blinded me, despite the shades, and I was immediately overwhelmed by the noise and smells of Detroit. As I walked along the streets they felt strangely alien, and thinking back I could barely remember the last time I walked along here during the day.

I didn’t want to see the empty SI building, so I took a bit of a detour to get to my usual grocer to pick up the bare essentials, and on the way back I even dared to look at a newspaper.

The headline read _14 Deaths in Chicago Suicide Bombing_ , and I threw it away again immediately. Deciding to ignore the bile rising in my throat I bought a sandwich from a small deli a few blocks from the Chiron building, but the vendor looked at my cybernetic arms with such distrust and revulsion I ended up throwing the sandwich away too, after I forced down half of it. It hadn’t been good anyway.

Back at home I was overcome with restless energy, and I spent it by tidying up the rest of the apartment. I unpacked all the boxes and put it all in its proper place. I dusted the shelves and counters, scrubbed the bathroom tiles. The fractured reflection of the still-broken mirror winked at me mockingly out of the corner of my eyes.

Come evening, me and my apartment were changed beyond recognition. It felt slightly sterile, after I had lived in so much filth for months, but it was better. I felt better. At least until I remembered the outside world, and the demons within.

I cooked a few simple omelets for dinner, relishing in the small exercise and the taste of fresh food on my tongue. When I turned on the TV, it thankfully wasn’t Eliza Cassan, but reruns of some old police procedural show I’d seen a dozen times. Pointing out all the errors and inconsistencies came nearly effortlessly. It was familiar, comforting.

That night I went to bed at a decent hour, though I slept fitfully. Nightmares woke me four times, until I gave up at around 5am. To shut out all thoughts, I dropped and did push-ups, and then sit-ups, and then anything else I could think of until the few remaining biological muscles in my body burned and quivered in protest.

I went to mix myself a protein shake and nursed it in front of the TV, checking the time every now and then. When it was lunchtime I heated up some water, dumped it on instant-noodles and crawled back onto the couch. Still fatigued from my rigorous exercising I came to the realization that I was tremendously out of shape. Underweight too, probably, since a diet of delivery pizza, scotch and cigarettes wasn’t a healthy one, so I mixed another shake and washed down some vitamin- and other supplements I knew I had left from physio after I was augmented.

Evening darkened the sky, and I made myself a mixed salad, which I ate in front of the computer. I spent the time staring at Faridah’s message, pondering whether to answer or if it was best to just show up.

8pm flew by, and I dressed in my usual slacks and coat. I wished I could look in the mirror and see whether I looked … normal. Whether I was about to shock Faridah and anyone else who might be there.

As the elevator descended, I wondered who “the old SI gang” consisted of. I had no idea, really. During my time at Sarif Industries had kept friendly contact with most people, and everyone knew me, but I hadn’t been _friends_ , really, with any of them. I didn’t bother when I was still with Megan, and after that I had thrown myself into work. Except Faridah, who apparently regarded me as a friend, no one I yearned to see came to mind. And I was pretty sure David Sarif would never lower his standards so far as to hang out at a bar like Betsy’s, not even after losing his company and most of his social standing.

My feet traced the steps to Betsy’s as if on autopilot, and it wasn’t until I threw away the butt of my cigarette in order to push open the door to the old bar that I felt some nerves. What if I didn’t know anyone apart from Faridah? What if they would stare and whisper and point at me behind my back? What if I was too brooding and serious, what if I ruined their night out?

It was too late to turn back now, however, so I went in cautiously, casing the room to see if I could spot anyone familiar-looking.

“Oh God.”

I turned around and froze, coming almost face to face with none other than Francis Pritchard.

“Hi,” I blurted out, probably looking as startled and disbelieving as him.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” he muttered, downed the rest of his pint of beer in one gulp and walked away without another word.

“Oh my God, Jensen, it _is_ you!”

This voice I recognized, and I had recovered enough from the shock of seeing Pritchard to smile when Faridah wrapped me in a hug.

“Hi, Malik. Good to see you.”

“Good to see _you_ , spy boy! Where the hell have you been? Dropped off the face of the Earth after that explosion – though we found out you were alive after some digging,” she said, giving him a stern frown. “Could have called, you know. Let us know you’re still in one piece.”

“I was recovering,” I said, trying to remain stoic under her chiding glare. She brightened up then and led me to a table where half a dozen people or so sat. To my relief, I knew most of their faces, and I tried to greet them with a neutral, non-threatening smile.

“Everyone, you guys remember Adam Jensen?”

I let Declan Faherty clap my shoulder and babble on about how grateful he was, before I calmly shook Nia Colvin’s hand. She’d never really gotten over her dislike for me after me and Megan broke up, I remembered.

“We’d been wondering what you’ve been up to, Jensen,” Wayne Haas exclaimed, apparently slightly drunk already. He scooted over a bit unsteadily to let me greet two middle-aged women I didn’t know – Evelyn McCree and Monica Alvaro – until I got an arm full of tearful Cindy Martinez.

“I’m sorry,” the tiny ex-SI receptionist apologized afterwards. “It’s just, after everything … It’s good to see another familiar face.”

“It’s alright,” I assured her, patting her back awkwardly, and let her strong-arm me into a chair next to her.

Pritchard returned then, giving me a curt nod, not showing any of the unease that had been so plain before.

“Jensen,” he said and sat a couple of chairs over, between Faherty and Haas. He’d made good on his comment and switched his pint for a tumbler of whisky, it seemed.

“I’m getting another drink, too,” Cindy announced. “Adam, wanna come with and get something for yourself?”

“Sure.”

I ordered scotch for myself and waited with Cindy until her cocktail arrived – some green monstrosity that smelled sweet even at a distance.

“So, how are you doing?” she asked as we made our way back to our table.

“I’m, uh, better now.” I scrambled for something else to say. “You? Did you find a new job?”

“Yeah, most of us did. I’m a receptionist at a hotel now, the doc and Nia got snatched up by a pharma corporation, Faridah hauls cargo down at the port, Wayne does some night shifts guarding a Palisade branch, and Pritchard’s been consulting with the Feds.” She shrugged and took a sip of her drink. “People are less trusting of us now, after the Aug Incident. It’s harder to get a well-paid, regular job. Eve and Monica did some temp work, but it ended last month and now they’re unemployed again.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Cindy laughed dryly.

“It’s worse, trust me. This bar’s the only place we don’t have to bear any slurs or passive aggression.”

Faridah apparently picked up on their topic of discussion and scoffed.

“You’d guess we wouldn’t get so much shit, since our augs are less conspicuous, but you’d be wrong. I can’t imagine what you’re faced with, Jensen.”

“Not much, actually,” I admitted. “I haven’t left my apartment much.”

“Wise choice,” Pritchard slurred and knocked back the rest of his drink. I was so astonished to hear him agree with me that I didn’t retort.

“It’s getting out of hand, son,” Declan Faherty muttered, shaking his head. “It’s painful to see so much conflict and intolerance. The lies they tell about augmented people – it’s unbelievable.”

“The media is only contributing to the fear and panic by spreading misinformation,” Nia agreed.

I thought about Eliza Cassan and her true purpose – guiding the masses’ emotions, beliefs and opinions, and wondered. I had believed that by self-destructing Panchaea I was giving back the decision regarding transhumanism back to the people. I had believed that people would make a rational decision. That there would be votes, debates, discussions. Never would I have dreamed that the people could be this blind. A rift was opening, between augmented and non-augmented people. Between terrorists on both sides and innocent bystanders. A conflict fueled by the men and women in power, who completely disregarded the decision I had made with a heavy heart. It didn’t matter which button I chose, I realized. This had always been the planned outcome.

Around me the discussion had shifted to something less serious. I sipped on my scotch and fondly watched Faridah nearly topple off her chair, she was laughing so hard. People had gotten up and shifted around, leaving me seated next to Nia Colvin and an empty chair. A look around told me that Haas was missing, and since he wasn’t at the bar either I could only surmise he’d gone to the bathroom.

The playful group-banter came to a sudden halt when Pritchard cheerfully said: “Oh look, Cindy, that guy over there looks like your ex.”

Everyone’s heads swiveled around to look where he pointed. A blond man with a cap on had entered the bar and now stood uncertainly in front of the entrance, blocking it for a woman trying to get in behind him. She jostled him as she tried to squeeze past him, and he started to berate her loudly. The argument quickly turned a lot of heads in the bar, but the guy didn’t seem to notice as he continued to shout at the poor woman.

“That idiot,” I heard Cindy mutter. “I can’t handle this right now.”

Pritchard then made a strange squeaking sound, and Faridah laughed. When I turned to look at his seat, it was empty. The table rattled, and a pained groan came from under it.

“Did you just seriously crawl under the table?” Faridah asked incredulously.

“I’m not here!” came Cindy’s insistent whisper. “Ow!”

Haas casually stepped up to the table and grabbed underneath it, pulling until Cindy came crawling back out.

“You didn’t have to grip my elbow that hard,” she complained and shoved Haas lightly.

“Cindy!”

Seemingly barreling out of nowhere came the blond guy, waltzing past Haas and crowding Cindy’s space.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asked, adding a hard shove that had her ending up plastered against the wall behind her.

“Jesus, Nick, keep it down!” she whispered and held out a hand as if to keep the blond at arm’s length.

“You’re not replying to any of my messages, and yesterday you didn’t answer the door even though I knew exactly you were in. What the hell?”

“I told you, last week was the last straw. It’s over.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Nick growled and shoved Cindy again.

“Hey!” Haas shouted, but was shoved away too.

“This is none of your business, piss off.”

“Just calm down,” Cindy said and grabbed Nick’s elbow, and then everything happened very quickly.

Nick swung his free arm and backhanded Cindy so hard she crumbled to the floor, clutching her face. The next thing I knew I had Nick face-first against the wall, his arm twisted up against his back.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” I growled, unflinching when Nick continued to struggle. His pathetic kicks to my shin and his free hand scrabbling against my shoulder barely registered.

“Get the fuck off me, you fucking dog. Fucking psycho hanzer! This your new boyfriend, Cindy? I hope he rips your fucking head off; you hear me? You’re _dead_!”

Nick let out a satisfying wail when I tightened my grip on his arm.

“Try anything else and I’ll rip off your arm instead,” I growled into his ear. This finally shut him up.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” came a voice I vaguely recognized as the bartender’s.

“No, this fine young man was just about to leave,” I said and released Nick.

He gave me a dirty look and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, but backed off quietly. When he walked past Cindy, still sitting on the floor, she tripped him up and sent him flying into a thankfully empty chair.

“You dirty little- …!”

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

Nick cursed under his breath, but readjusted his hat and scrambled quickly without looking back.

“Thanks,” Cindy muttered as I helped her back onto her feet.

“You’re going to have a black eye tomorrow.”

“Damn.” She touched a careful finger to her eye, and cursed again. “This is gonna need a lot of makeup, isn’t it.”

“Let me ask the bartender for some ice.”

“Thanks, doc.”

A discussion broke out whether it was better to put the ice on directly, or whether one should press it against the cheek below in order for the swelling to remain as minimal possible. I let them talk and went back to my chair and my scotch. My fingers itched for a cigarette, but of course it wasn’t permitted to smoke in here.

“I’ll be outside real quick.”

Faridah gave me a smile and a nod, indicating she’d heard me, before she turned back to the discussion.

It was ironic, how a lung full of smoke could relax the tight knot that had built in my chest more efficiently than the cool night air of Detroit. Nothing really happened, of course, since my Sentinel RX Health System kicked in right away, making sure there were no effects, long-lasting or otherwise. All I could do was watch the tip of the cigarette light up as I took in a deep breath and feel the smoke unfurl in my mouth as I breathed out. Like a screen it hovered in front of me before it evaporated, leaving me once again unprotected and raw. The motion alone helped. The slow drag in and the long breath out. Having to concentrate on not crushing the tiny cigarette between my cybernetic fingers that could snap a neck just as easily.

I had known physical violence for most of my adult life. I had chosen it as my path through life, first as a police officer, then as a member of SWAT Team Two, and ultimately as SI’s Head of Security. Still, I had never enjoyed inflicting pain even on people who deserved it. Maybe that was a weakness, but if it was one, at least it made me human. Especially with my augmentations, making good on my threat would have been so easy. I could have ripped off Nick’s arm without any effort whatsoever. If I really wanted to kill him, nobody could have stopped me.

It was terrifying, to have this kind of power. Me, it made cautious. Others, they grew greedy and fat on it until they were corrupted to the core.

“That’s him, that’s the robot asshole I told you about!”

Like that guy Nick.

I dropped the cigarette and crushed it under my boot heel. The last of its smoke billowed out from my mouth as I sighed. Pritchard was kind of an ass, but even he was on the far end from where I positioned Nick on the asshole scale. Cindy deserved some rest from this bigoted hooligan. Time for some street justice, I’d say.

“Brought some friends, did you?” I called out.

It looked like Nick had some friends in the DRB – the Derelict Row Ballers. Which made sense, with their anti-aug mentality, and it would make getting the point across easier. It made me wonder, though, how Cindy got caught up with one of them.

I activated my Glass-Shield Cloaking System as soon as the first one drew his weapon. Better to keep this as contained and with as few casualties as possible, especially since I had only brought an unmodified pistol and a single clip, more out of habit than anything else. With them outnumbering me six to one, I couldn’t possibly outshoot them. Sneaking behind them I knocked two of them out cold before any of them could even wonder where I’d disappeared to.

The next one fell just as quickly, though by the time he hit the ground the remaining three, including Nick, had caught on to my little trick and were pelting me with bullets. Groaning, I ducked behind a newspaper stand and evaluated my options.

“Come out and face me like a man!” Nick screamed and fired another round that hit the wall behind me.

I was just about to jump over my cover and charge at Nick and the two Ballers, when a sizzling sound and a chorus of groans preceded sudden silence.

“All clear, Jensen,” came Haas’ voice, and I peered at him with wonder. He was crouching over Nick, who was still stunned, and bound his hands behind his back with cable tie.

“How did you- …?”

“Heard the gunshots,” he said, shrugging. “I came directly from work, you know, and we get those P.E.P.S. guns. Sweet things, those.”

“Thanks,” I breathed, looking at the men either writhing on the ground, bound by their hands, or unconscious. “Want me to call it in?”

“Malik took care of that.”

“Sorry for the mess.”

“It’s alright.” Haas straightened and wiped his hands on his trousers. All signs of having been drunk before had vanished. He looked alert and ready for action. “Least we know this is the last time we’re seeing Cindy with a black eye.”

“This has happened before?”

“More or less. Well, less, but hey. Can’t complain. This time we got indisputable proof, so the police won’t just dismiss it as a ‘domestic disturbance’.” Haas did the air quotes and all. “This’ll get Nicky serious charges and maybe even prison time.”

Once the police arrived to take the Ballers and Nick into custody and to question us, there was a clear distrust in the officers’ eyes as soon as they realized most of us were augmented. Me they questioned especially thoroughly, and they even gave Haas some shit about using his P.E.P.S. on the Ballers.

“Hey, I wasn’t going to let them shoot my friend,” he defended himself, and I shot him a grateful look.

In the end they couldn’t pin anything on either of us, but our group night out was definitely over. Betsy’s wasn’t too keen on having us as customers after having gotten its front shot to hell. Also, Cindy was asked to come in to the precinct to give her statement again, as were me and Haas.

“I’m sorry I ruined everything,” I told Faridah later.

She punched me in the side and then discreetly rubbed her knuckles.

“Don’t be stupid, spy boy. It was great to see you again. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“What, busting some gang members?” Pritchard butted in, looking annoyed. “Or getting Cindy beat up? I think I preferred it when our night out only consisted of alcohol and terrible company.”

“Watch who you’re calling terrible company, sour face,” Cindy laughed.

“Admit it, Jensen’s a hero.”

“Why, because he got shot at? There’s nothing heroic about that.”

“Because he got Nick a ticket to prison, duh.”

“ _Wayne_ all but arrested him, not Jensen.” Pritchard turned around. “Which reminds me, I haven’t thanked Wayne yet for being such a _hero_.”

“Oh, don’t you dare!”

“Let it rest, Malik,” I told her and caught her elbow to keep her from storming after Pritchard. “I don’t need him to thank me.”

“Not that.” She shook me off. “I don’t want him to take advantage of poor Haas.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Haas’ wife just divorced him, and Pritchard’s been making comments like that, like … you know …”

“Oh.”

Stunned, I let her go. I followed her gaze to where the two men were standing – approximately where I had gotten into cover when Nick and the Ballers shot at me. From what I could see the conversation was entirely innocent, but then what did I know what flirting looked like. It wasn’t any of my business anyway. Apart from a protective nerve regarding Haas’ wellbeing, and a naturally-grown interest in Pritchard’s shenanigans. It only interested me, because naturally I was curious to know more about everyone. This was a tightly knit group, and I needed to know its intricacies if I wanted to fit in. Obviously.

“Well,” Faridah yawned next to me and stretched until I heard her spine pop. “I should probably head home; gotta get up early tomorrow. But really, it’s been great seeing you, Jensen. I don’t know what we’ll do next, since we’re probably not welcome anymore at Betsy’s. We’ll figure something out though.”

“Why don’t you guys all come to my place next time,” I said before I could register the words. Faridah looked as stunned as I felt.

“Really? I mean, you don’t have to, Jensen, it’s alright if- …”

“No,” I said with more conviction. “It’s … I’ve been alone for a long time now. It’s been great to get out. Basic human contact, and all that.”

“Alright. We’ll stay in contact anyway. Check your messages every now and again, yeah? Don’t be a stranger, Jensen.”

She hugged me goodbye, and apparently everyone else took that as a sign to head off as well. Eve and Monica shook my hand with glints of appreciation in their eyes, and Nia actually seemed to have warmed up to me a bit as well.

“I didn’t mean to be an ass earlier, you know,” Pritchard said uncertainly. He’d stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants.

“It’s alright. Didn’t expect anything else from you.”

He rolled his eyes but gave me a jovial wave before slipping on a cap and ambling off into the night.

“I am grateful Nick’s … gone,” Cindy said next to me, bag of ice still clutched to her cheek.

“How’d you meet someone like that anyway?” it slipped out of my mouth.

“Ah. Long story.” She shrugged. “Short version, I met people. Mutual acquaintances and all. He wasn’t always like that, Nick. Just didn’t like it that I started saying no once he got too possessive.”

“I know the kind.”

“Yeah.”

Haas surprised me next by drawing me into a back-clapping hug.

“I’m glad you came out with us tonight. Busted some assholes, too.”

“Just like old times, huh.”

As I watched Cindy and Haas walk away together, Faherty told me he had to go in the same direction as me, though he had to branch off at the next block.

“Good seeing you, son. If you need anything, we all owe you. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, doc. I’ll try.”

Finally, alone and on my way home, a sudden wave of exhaustion gripped me – but not the crushing kind I had experienced so often during the last months. It was a similar fatigue to the one after a long, hard exercise. One that was energizing, that told me I had accomplished something.

That night, I slept peacefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter filler chapter *scratches head* Lots of references though. Also, I'm not American (nor am I a native English speaker, or a certified Deus Ex expert), so if I fuck up anything, just tell me.
> 
> And I just pre-ordered DX:MD, day one edition. So friggin' excited for that game!

New Year’s Eve had come and gone, and it was time for another meet-up with the old SI gang. When I invited everyone to come to my apartment I was prepared for hungry mouths to feed and thirsty throats. I had snacks laid out on every available surface, suddenly aware that my apartment wasn’t actually that big. When a message came that Monica wouldn’t be able to make it, and that Haas would be joining us with some slight delay, I was actually relieved to have some breathing room left.

Otherwise I would have been overwhelmed when the rest of ‘the old SI gang’ invaded my home, only to go on to invade my life as well.

“You need a job,” Farida declared after a couple of rounds of beer.

“A good one, where you’re not horrible overqualified or one that you got _despite_ of your augmentations,” added Cindy. Nia Colvin and Haas saluted her with their beer bottles.

“Aye, you need to get out more, son,” Faherty agreed. “And I don’t know about your, ah, financial situation …”

“Money’s not a problem,” I said. “But you’re right. I need something to do.”

I had been exercising more, getting my body and mind back into shape, playing with the idea to start working again. In the end I always let myself be distracted and didn’t pursue the thought any further, not wanting to admit that I was still afraid. Shell-shocked.

“I could see if there’s a job opening at the port,” Farida offered. “Haas, what about Palisade? I’m sure they always need new security guards or something.”

“Sure, I’ll keep an ear to the ground.”

“Frank, you have connections in both directions – got anything worth Adam Jensen’s time?” Cindy called out.

Everyone turned around to look at Pritchard, who clutched his bottle of beer as if it were his lifeline.

“Why me?” he complained.

“You’re the one priding himself on all the ins he’s got with everyone.”

“Alright, alright. I don’t know about the Feds, I’m just a contractor. But … well. There’s …”

“Come on, spit it out.”

“It’s underground stuff. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it unless I’m given the all-clear,” he said, annoyed, then looked at me directly. “I can ask them though, if they’ll consider initiating you.”

“A gang?” I asked.

“No, a … a collective. Their cause is related to what you did in the time before the Incident.”

I perked up.

“Acting from the shadows, hm?”

“They have their fingers in a lot of pies. I’ll see if I can convince someone from the core group to get in touch with you.”

“Thanks, Pritchard.”

“You’re welcome.”

Someone whistled, and I cleared my throat, suddenly hyperaware of my body.

“More miraculous words have never been said,” Faridah said mock-seriously, a hand on her heart. “Everyone witness this historic moment. Francis Wendell Pritchard- …” A hiss came from Pritchard’s direction. “… and Adam Jensen have exchanged polite words.”

“I second this record,” Cindy said, and one after the other they raised their beers and swore as witnesses.

“This is ridiculous,” Pritchard scoffed. “Jensen, got anything stronger than beer?”

“Sure, I haven’t drunken myself through my entire stash of scotch yet.”

“Bring it!” Faridah cried.

“No more for me,” Nia muttered, leaning back.

“I’m content with my beer too, thanks,” Eve said.

“I’m more of a whisky guy, to be honest.”

“Really, Haas? Irish Whisky or Canadian Rye? Single Malt or Blended?” Pritchard said eagerly.

“Jack Daniel’s does it for me, man.” Haas twisted in his seat to look at me. “But whatever you got’s good.”

“How about some music?” Cindy asked.

“Just turn on the TV system and choose whatever you like.”

I went into the kitchen to sift through my stash of alcohol, smiling to myself when I heard a heated discussion being kicked off about what kind of music to play. Faridah was for some electronic stuff, Cindy wanted to be diplomatic and just play a local radio station, and Pritchard demanded they play rock music.

“The host has no preference?” Faherty asked over the noise of their squabbling.

“No. I want to see who wins.”

“I bet on Miss Malik.”

“Can’t bet against you on that one, doc.”

I brought out a bottle of bourbon, so as not to favor anyone’s preferences, some ice and four glasses. By the time I poured Faridah her drink, she’d wrestled the TV system into complying with her wish, and deep bass and electronic tunes filled my apartment.

“You weren’t playing fair, Malik,” Pritchard complained, accepting his glass with a small nod.

“Good sound quality though, Jensen,” Eve diverted, instead kicking off another heated discussion about modern TV sound systems, this time including her, Haas, and surprisingly enough, Nia Colvin.

I leaned back in my armchair and automatically reached for a cigarette, but the presence of other people made me hesitate.

“I’ll join you, son. We can just open a window, yeah?” Faherty told me.

“Alright.”

We went into the adjacent room and I told the system to open the window next to my desk. Faherty remained silent until we had both lit our cigarettes. My Sentinel RX Health System went online with a quiet click under my sternum, and I closed my eyes.

“Nice view you got here, son.”

“Mmh.”

“Never realized you lived so close to SI HQ.”

“Didn’t used to.” _Before me and Megan broke up_ , went unsaid between us, but we both knew it.

Taking a deep drag of smoke, I thought back on the house we’d lived in, further in the outskirts of Detroit. I wondered whether Megan still lived there, in the little house with the tiny garden and the creaking stairs. I could almost hear the pitter-patter of Kubrick’s claws on the hardwood floor and the rumbling sound of the heater turning itself on whenever Megan took one of her endlessly long showers.

“Look,” Faherty said and breathed out slowly. “It’s no use being stuck in the past. Better to be in the now and look ahead. You got some good people here. Don’t lose them to a memory.”

I looked over my shoulder and watched Eve, Cindy and Faridah dance to the beats and bass of some modern party track. The fun they seemed to have felt that far removed from me though, that I wouldn’t know where to begin to join them. I was an awkward dancer, had never been into it before, and while I saw the appeal of it in their laughing faces I felt no urge to mingle. Meanwhile, Pritchard and Haas were talking animatedly in a corner a bit removed from the girls, and Nia- …

As soon as my eyes fell on her, my CASIE social enhancer flared up against my will. It showed an unnaturally elevated mean heartbeat, shortness of breath and continually rising blood pressure.

“’scuse me,” I muttered and put out my cigarette in the ashtray next to my computer.

“I’ll close the window when I’m done,” Faherty called after me.

As I approached Nia, I picked up her nervous muttering, a repeated “come on” and “pick up”. Apparently she was trying to reach someone on the phone.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, stepping back a bit when she jumped.

“Yes, it’s- …” She interrupted herself and half turned away, pressing the phone to her ear. “My God, what happened? … _What_?”

Nia barreled past me and told the TV system to switch to the news. Faridah’s loud protests died down as soon as Eliza Cassan uttered the words “terror attack”.

“ _… the Philadelphia Police Department reports twenty casualties and over eighty wounded. Sixteen are still in critical condition. So far, it is unclear who is responsible for this attack, though suspects are being hunted for. Mayor Thompson has voiced concerns over the rising- …_ ”

 “What’s going on?” Cindy asked.

“Apparently someone blew up a car right in the city center of Philadelphia,” Nia replied, her voice trembling. “But it doesn’t look like the usual anti-aug terrorism we’ve had recently. Otherwise they’d have said it was next to a LIMB clinic or something like that.”

 “Philadelphia?” Eve said worriedly. “A friend of mine works there. I hope they’re alright.”

“The world is getting more and more radicalized,” Faherty added from behind me. “Terrorists on both sides. Augs and anti-augs. Soon it won’t matter what we think – just for being associated with transhumanist augmentation technology we’ll be damned by those against it.”

“Do you really think it’ll get that far?” I asked, thinking back on my decision to destroy Panchaea – to believe that mankind will come to its own conclusions. Never would I have imagined that those conclusions might be so … violent.

“Sure looks like it.”

“… alright. Just get home safe.” Nia ended her call and turned to us with a stricken face. “Excuse me, I have to leave. I’ve got family in Philadelphia, and … no one’s hurt, but still. I’d like to be with them now.”

“Of course.”

She quickly said goodbye to everyone, including a heartfelt handshake with me, and left behind a quiet atmosphere of shock. The TV system started playing electro music again, but the girls didn’t pick up their dancing, and I saw Haas look into his glass of bourbon with a vacant stare. Pritchard next to him had a fist pressed to his mouth, but it didn’t hide any of his paleness.

“Has it been this bad the last couple of months?” I asked.

“There was one bigger incident, and a couple of violent protests with property damage, but so far all of it was directed at augs,” Faherty replied. He suddenly looked years older, the worry etched into his face. “But if both sides fall back on terrorism to make their point … I’m afraid to imagine the consequences.”

“I heard about this,” Pritchard suddenly said. Everyone turned to look at him, but his stare remained fixed at a point far in the distance.

“What do you mean?” Faridah demanded to know.

“The … People I know, they …” He cut himself off. “I heard something was being planned in Philadelphia. I thought it was a protest. A demonstration. Something … _peaceful_. I- …”

He pointed at the TV.

“The picture they showed. People they’re hunting for. I know that girl, she’s …” He made a low sound and covered his face with his hands. “She can’t be a terrorist. She seemed so sweet, so smart.”

“Is she a member of that collective you wanted to introduce me to?” I asked, a sour taste in my mouth.

“No,” Pritchard was quick to say. “No, no. They are allies, though, I think. The … The girl, she was NSF. The New Sons of Freedom. A militia group, separatists, extremists. The people I’m in contact with, they’re mainly hackers and activists, though there are some field operatives to do the rest.” He paused. “You can’t tell any of this to the police or media. If word gets out …”

“How the hell did you get involved with this kind of thing?”

“They approached me, for my skills I guess. For my connections. I … I don’t know.”

“We have to do something,” Farida declared, her dark eyes brimming with anger and determination. “This can’t happen. It will turn into a full-out, global war!”

“I’m sure people will come to their senses,” Eve said weakly.

“No. This has been brewing under the surface for years. It started with the protests, like those that besieged Sarif Industries,” Faherty disagreed.

“Yeah, some of us couldn’t even go to work,” Cindy added, pointing at herself.

I wondered whether I should tell everyone what I had found out during my investigation into Megan’s kidnapping. That the Illuminati were behind not only the manufacturing and distribution of the altered biochip as a means to control enhanced people, but that it had been Hugh Darrows who switched the signal, causing the Aug Incident singlehandedly in an attempt to disillusion the masses against transhumanist technology.

This game – if it could even be called that, since there were human lives hanging in the balance – was rigged. I used to believe I could fight for the betterment of the world, make a difference, stand for something. After Panchaea I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“A word, Pritchard,” I said and walked into the adjacent room without looking back. I stood by the window, regarding the famed and prized skyline of Detroit with detached wonder. My own reflection looked back at me faintly. At least the contours of my face were more or less familiar.

Pritchard’s steps were quiet as he joined me. He’d closed the door behind him, giving us some privacy, even though I was sure Faridah would try to eavesdrop anyway. She was aggressively concerned that way.

“You wanted to talk to me,” Pritchard grit out, a low tone to his voice that made him sound as if he were expecting a dressing-down from me.

“This collective you’re working with,” I said, leaning forward to watch the people pass by below. “Tell me more about them. Do they have far-reaching connections? How many are there? Who is their leader? What is their goal?”

When Pritchard remained silent I turned around and fixed him with a serious stare.

“Look. We both know that there is more going on behind these conflicts than mere bigotry and intolerance. Not that people aren’t capable of genocide all by themselves, because they are. But there are guiding forces that want to put a rift between augmented and non-augmented people, for whatever reason. What I need to know now is whether your collective is capable of making a difference. If what they do _matters_. Otherwise there’s no sense in joining them.”

Pritchard’s stance, defensive at first, shifted into something readier, more confident as I spoke. I could see that he knew what I spoke of – not just knowledge of the Illuminati’s machinations, but the thirst for something to do, to act, and counter-act. To have an impact on the future.

“We are the Juggernaut Collective,” he said, the gleam of righteousness in his eyes. “And we will not stop until the Illuminati are destroyed, and their influence on mankind dissipated.”

“How do you plan on doing that?”

“As I said, we are mostly hackers – the media would call us cyberterrorists. We take down Illuminati corporations and leak essential intelligence if we can in order to hinder their operations. Everything is compartmentalized though, and only the core group has access to information regarding other members, missions and such. No one has even met our leader, who calls himself Janus.”

I hummed and crossed my arms.

“Can I trust him?”

“He has not misguided us so far,” Pritchard said with a shrug.

“Alright. Tell me more.”

He pointed over his shoulder.

“This is going to take a while. Perhaps we should postpone this for when you don’t have guests over.”

I grimaced.

“You’re right. Um …”

“Not to be rude and invite myself, but- …” He pulled out a phone and looked at something on it. “What do you say, are you free on Saturday? I’ll bring dinner or something, answer all your questions, and if you’re still interested in joining, I’ll ask Janus to contact you directly.”

“It’s a date,” I joked.

“Ha-ha. Come on, let’s get back to the others.”

The evening was ruined, however. Soon, everyone said goodbye and left, a haunted look and questions in their eyes. The threat we were faced with, as augmented people, as associates, friends and family of augs, had become all too real after the car bomb in Philadelphia. Before, we had to endure slurs and street violence. Public opinion of transhumanist technologies had been divided for years now, but it had been a debate on a political and economic level, aimed at corporations, politicians and organizations. That now our very lives were in danger came as a shock to innocent bystanders such as Nia, Cindy or Haas – some of whom weren’t even augmented.

When Pritchard shook my hand, face set in grim determination, I told myself I had been given the tools to change all of this. That I could be the tool to bring change and bridge the rift opening up, dividing society. And that I didn’t have to be alone in doing so. There were others fighting this battle, fighting for the people.

“See you on Saturday,” I said.

“Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd appreciate any kudos, comments or bookmarks you might want to feed this monster :3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started fun and then got very depressing very fast. I'm sorry. It's also angsty, and a bit fluffy too though, so. Don't shoot.

Not having realized how hungry my last workout session had made me, I was eyeing Pritchard’s last remaining egg roll hopefully. He was telling me more about the Juggernaut Collective and some of the members he knew over Chinese takeout, and I was listening with half an ear, but that egg roll looked delicious, and Pritchard made no move to eat it.

“… and then everything exploded.”

“What?”

“You weren’t listening.” He jutted his chopsticks at me. “You’re staring at my egg roll.”

“That’s not- … I- … Alright, yeah, I was. Are you gonna give it to me or what?”

He leaned forward and propped up his chin, regarding me thoughtfully.

“Hmm. Only if you tell me something.”

“Ask away.”

He grinned, straightening in his seat, and opened his mouth. Then he hesitated, sobering. I swallowed, dreading the question to follow.

“Panchaea,” was all he said.

“What about it,” I snarled. I had to force myself not to ball my fingers into a fist, or I might have been tempted to punch something. Like Pritchard’s face. But he stared at me with wide eyes, pale and distressed.

“I just want to know what happened after I lost your signal. I know you went to the Hyron core, to shut down the signal. I know the entire thing flooded and crumbled in on itself. I know you got out, somehow, because- …” He made a helpless gesture in my direction. “Faridah begged me to find out where you were, and we tracked you to a Canadian hospital, but they wouldn’t give us any further information. We never found out when you woke up or came back to Detroit. All we could do was pretend. We all sent you messages, and Faridah came to your apartment a few times, but you never answered.

So, I’d like to know what happened.” He grimaced. “And you can have the damn egg roll anyway. Because you don’t have to tell me. God knows I’m probably the last person you’d want to talk to about this.”

Taken aback, I stared at the stupid egg roll, not wanting to eat it after all. I opened my mouth a few times as if to answer Pritchard, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell him what happened. Not because I hadn’t processed it yet, or was traumatized by it. Not because my memory was hazy. I remembered everything as clearly as if it had just happened. I had made a choice I felt was right, and I told myself I could live – or die – with it. That was not what halted my voice.

I never realized that he cared. That anyone cared. And that was frightening.

Yes, I had come to regard Farida, Cindy, Haas, Faherty, and even Nia and Eve and Monica as my friends. Yes, Pritchard was part of that group, so technically he was my friend too. How could I not, when they were the ones dragging me back into social life kicking and screaming, when they helped me become better and healthier? And perhaps some small corner of my mind had known that in order for that to have happened they needed to care for me and see me as their friend too.

But when I pressed that button and chose to give the world freedom, I also chose to die. I chose to let it all end then and there, because I saw no reason to live on. I had been a weapon, and my purpose was fulfilled.

I chose – unwittingly, perhaps, and fate kept it from happening – yet still I chose to kill a man they all cared for. I chose to kill a friend. Not once did I think that leaving the world with questions unanswered might also mean to leave my friends wondering, grieving, hoping.

And yet.

Pritchard just admitted that he had been worried all this time. He said he didn’t need me to answer, that he doubted I cared as much about him as he did about me. And it put everything in a different perspective.

“I don’t- …”

“That’s fine,” Pritchard said hastily. “That’s absolutely fine. Let’s just forget I asked.”

“No.” I grimaced, searching for the right words. “It … What happened was my fault. I chose to destroy Panchaea because … I thought it was the right choice. But I don’t think there was a right choice.”

Pritchard leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face.

When he didn’t say anything, I cautiously continued: “I was in a bad place when I woke up. Not … literally. The doctors were very good and they patched me up so I was good as new. But I- …”

I couldn’t meet his eyes any longer. Taking a shuddering breath, I looked at my hands as I slowly clenched them. They felt like my hands, like living flesh – but they weren’t. They were tools of destruction and death.

“I wanted to die.”

I heard Pritchard’s sharp intake of breath and grit my teeth. This was the first time I told anyone the truth about Panchaea, and I feared Pritchard’s reaction – so I just barreled on.

“I woke, once, floating in the arctic ocean after I got knocked out by the water pressure. It was so peaceful there. No noise, no weight, no light. I just closed my eyes and wished it all away. But then I woke up again and there were doctors and nurses, IV drips and drills.” I unfolded my fingers and moved a thumb, watching the machinery inside work to make it look like a real thumb. “It was a nightmare.”

The true wonder with my cybernetic limbs was not the fact that, while they were very visibly mechanical of make they still worked the same or even better than their biological counterparts, but that they felt the same too. So when Pritchard’s warm fingers folded themselves over mine, gently gripping them, it felt as if flesh were touching flesh. The neurosensors gave me the impression of supple skin sliding against the metal plating of my own hand, and it was so wondrous that my breath was knocked out of my lungs.

“I am so sorry.”

I looked up, slowly tearing my eyes from the miracle of healthy flesh mingled with cold, hard metal, only to see tears on Pritchard’s cheeks.

“What- …”

“I should have made a bigger effort. We could have gotten you out of that hospital. We could- … I could have helped. And I didn’t.”

“You are helping now,” I said, and gently squeezed our intertwined hands.

“But you nearly died. You _wanted_ to- …” He choked on the words, looking away as if trying to hide his tears.

“Pritchard.”

“Don’t do it. Whatever reason you had to want to … I don’t know whether you felt like you had to pay a debt of some kind, or if you thought the world would be a better place without you – whichever it was, it’s bullshit.” He reciprocated my strange handshake when he said it, increasing the pressure, even. “My father killed himself when I was ten. He thought we would be better off without him. We weren’t. We mourned him, and we struggled anyway. His death was in vain.”

“I’m not going to kill myself now,” I said.

“Maybe not. But you do have a death wish. I have seen you fight, and the way you operate out in the field. You don’t care about yourself the way someone happy and healthy would.”

Pritchard withdrew his hands and looked at me determinedly.

“I think you will die if you join the Juggernaut Collective. So I won’t ask Janus to contact you.”

“Pritchard, I- …”

“It’s for the best, Jensen.” He got up and retreated slowly, the way one would from a dangerous animal.

Stricken, I remained still and relaxed, showing him that I had no intention of attacking him in any way.

“Pritchard,” I tried again. “I’m better now. I don’t want to die.”

He shook his head.

“Not right now, maybe. I don’t think you’ll take the kitchen knife and slit your wrists. But if given the choice, would you not die if it meant you could achieve some kind of goal?”

“Of course I would die to protect innocent people, that has always been a prerogative of my job, has been for years. And if it is for the betterment of the world- …”

“But you see,” Pritchard said with a hysteric laugh. “There is no such thing. What kind of logic is that, when a man’s death means that the world is as better place? For some that might be true, but it certainly doesn’t apply to you.” He stepped back. “You can’t change my opinion, Jensen. I won’t do it.”

“Then I will just find another way to get myself into danger without you,” I pointed out.

Pritchard growled low in his throat and made gesture as if he wished he could strangle me from a distance.

“You’re not responsible for me,” I continued. “I can make my own decisions. And right now, any kind of work sounds much more appealing than slowly stewing in my own juices. Otherwise I’ll go stir crazy.”

I stood from my chair, taking a slow step forward – as expected, Pritchard made an aborted step back. In the end he remained where he was, though, looking at me defiantly.

“Then find something else to do. Join a club, go jogging, I don’t care. Just do something normal people would do too.”

“But I’m not normal, Pritchard,” I pointed out, holding out my arms to showcase my body and its various augmentations. “I was made for a specific purpose.”

“You don’t have to comply,” he said weakly.

“And that’s not your decision to make.”

He made a low sound and crumpled against the wall behind him. Then, a small nod.

“I have no right to tell you what to do or not to do, of course. All I can do is … tell you to be careful. If not for your sake, the for the sake of those who care about you.”

A snarky comment was on the tip of my tongue – _didn’t know you cared_ – and I would have uttered it without a second thought just a few months ago. But now; _this_ … It felt like standing on a knife’s edge. This was a breaking point. A caesura in my history with Pritchard.

So I stepped forward, until he looked me in the eyes, and concentrated hard to grip his elbow as gently as I could. And then I said: “I will. I promise that to you – as a friend.”

“So we’re friends now?” he said with a lopsided grin, and put his warm hand on mine.

“Only if you want.”

“Oh,” he sniffed. “What if I don’t want to be your friend?”

Taken aback, I felt my hand slip from his arm. Had I interpreted his words the wrong way? Maybe I misinterpreted all of our interactions, because to me it had felt like our initial hostility had softened into at least some sort of grudging camaraderie during my hunt for the men responsible for the attack on Sarif Industries. And in the last two months we had gotten closer as people, separate from our jobs. Or maybe mistook his lightened mood for something more than it was, maybe- …

“Jensen, I- … Adam, it was a joke. I mean … Of course I’ll be your friend if that’s what you want. But- …”

Cautiously, I searched Pritchard’s face. My CASIE mod tried to engage, but I repressed it. This wasn’t the appropriate time or place to utilize it that way. And perhaps it would have helped me interpret the signs, but I’d have felt like a cheater.

Pritchard was rubbing his face with both hands before running his fingers through his hair, nearly dislodging the headband tying it into his signature ponytail. Even without the mod I picked up on his fast, shallow breath and the redness of his cheeks.

“Pritchard, what is it?”

He met my eyes for a split second before looking away again.

“Truth is …” He cut himself off again. “Okay, I’m just going to say it.”

“Alright …?”

“So the thing is, I like you. And I mean _like_ like, not just as a friend or an acquaintance or a former colleague or whatever. Have been for a while now, actually. Since before Panchaea. And I know it’s silly, but I never _disliked_ you, and it was just so easy to _like_ you that _I’m just going to shut up now_.”

I stared at him for a few dumbfounded seconds before I regained my bearing.

“Okay.”

“ _Okay_?” Pritchard opened his mouth, but held himself in check until the fury drained from his face. “That’s … Okay.”

“I just- …” Struggling to put a name to the feelings churning in my chest and stomach, I gestured helplessly. “I once thought I’d never be able to let Megan go,” I said quietly. It felt like offering a bigger secret than anything else I had said tonight. “When her job got between us … And even after I thought she died, I still loved her. I was obsessed. I couldn’t forget her.”

“Of course,” Pritchard whispered.

There were more words clogged in my throat, unvoiced, only half-thought. That finding out what she’d done had shattered something inside me. That sometimes I thought to myself I never really missed Megan – I only missed the illusion of a happy life we’d had. That I still loved her anyway, helpless to untie my heart from hers. That I doubted I was capable of loving anyone else. That I was afraid for anyone who might love me.

Instead, I said: “You should go.”

I was staring at the floor between our feet, not wanting to see the look on Pritchard’s face. It was so quiet I could hear our breaths, and the hum of electricity in the walls. When I saw Pritchard’s feet move, I willed my gaze to remain fixed to the floor. Cloth rustled. The clink of keys.

“I’ll tell Janus to contact you tomorrow.”

I heard the door close behind him, and the security system’s neutral voice, muffled through the walls: “Good evening, Mr. Pritchard.”

I wondered when it had learned to recognize him.

Then I sat down and counted my breaths, waiting for the world to stop spinning around me.

X

“ _We have had our sights on you for a very long time, Mr. Jensen. It is good to finally speak to you directly_.”

“Not in person, though. Janus, is it?” I squinted at the pixelated face that had suddenly appeared on my TV during the morning news.

“ _Yes, you may call me Janus. And I am afraid my identity must remain unknown. However, you have met one of my agents before. I believe, you knew him under the name ‘Garvin Quinn’.”_

“Ah. The Belltower blacksite. That was you?”

 _“Yes. We have played a part in many such operations. That you have found your way to us now is fortunate. The current socio-political situation has forced us to step up our game. An asset with your capabilities could be the deciding factor to turn the tides._ ”

I ground my teeth.

“Francis Pritchard has recommended me to your organization,” I said slowly. “Can you tell me more about what it is exactly that he is doing for you, and what I would be expected to do?”

“ _Frank has been an unwitting ally in our war for a long time now. I dare say he is the only rival to my hacking abilities. What we do is to expose information vital to the enemy’s operations to the public. But sometimes keystrokes do not get us far enough. And this is where men and women like you step in._ ”

“To be your pawns? No thanks.”

“ _Mr. Jensen, that you are speaking to me already means you are part of our movement. The things you have uncovered – do they not make you want to take action? We are the only ones capable of providing you with the necessary intelligence, cover and assets to make a difference._ ” The voice hesitated. “ _I do not need to tell you that this is a war we cannot afford to lose. You have already decided to take action. All you need to do is accept it._ ”

“Or what? You’ll have one of your attack dogs put me down?”

“ _Oh no. The Illuminati will do it for me._ ”

I stared at the TV.

“You mean- …?”

“ _Did you really think they didn’t have you on their radar, even since before Panchaea? Mr. Jensen, you are the fulcrum point of this invisible war. You could be the spearhead of revolution – or the ultimate weapon in the wrong hands. As long as you are a loose cannon, an unknowable variable, you are threat to them. For now, you are protected. But this protection is as fickle as the weather._

 _I am not threatening you. I don’t need to. You already know the path of truth, and now you are ready to walk it._ ”

“So is that it? I’m part of your little group of hacktivists now?”

“ _Not quite yet. Everyone must prove their worth. You will find a set of coordinates on your computer. Investigate them. Frank will contact you with further instructions._ ”

The TV flickered, and Janus’ likeness dissipated into darkness.

How anticlimactic.

However, there were indeed coordinates on my computer, and they were both close by. I looked at the time. Early morning. Well, I hadn’t gone for a jog in a while.

X

One set of coordinates led to information that eventually led me to a warehouse stacked with something called Riezin – apparently an as of yet unapproved alternative to Neuropozyne. VersaLife, obviously unhappy with the sudden competition, had long since decried it as unsafe and potentially dangerous, but it seemed that the black market for Riezin still thrived. Over the course of the next couple of days I was tasked with staking out the warehouse – noting who came and went, and when. Where they came from and where they went, and what they brought or took with them. This information I fed to an anonymous online forum – coded, of course – for the Juggernaut analysts to sift through. I wasn’t the only one posting nonsensical comments on there, and it told me a lot about the reach the Juggernaut Collective had. Whatever they used this information for, either the operation was much more extensive than that, or they had multiple balls in the game worldwide and it was just one small part in a bigger picture.

I didn’t hear from Pritchard directly until nearly a week of mind-dumbing stakeouts, and even then it was just instructions to move on to a new location, with a new set of codes attached for me to use. The message was cold and professional, and it executed the digital equivalent of a self-destruct as soon as I had read it, giving me a first real glimpse into Pritchard’s expertise in the field.

Rinse and repeat.

Four stakeout jobs later, it was time for another meetup with the old SI gang. I looked forward to it with a strange mixture of dread and excitement, because the intelligence gathering had given me a lot of time to think, sitting in the dark on rooftops.

I was ashamed of how I had reacted to Pritchard’s confession. He had been honest with me, and either way I should have handled it courteously. But instead, his words had blindsided me, and as a reaction to them I oversteered, probably hurting him badly in the process. Flicking cigarette ash into the night air I imagined writing a heartfelt message, spelling out my shortcomings and apologies, since I was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate a call. On the other hand, he deserved more than silent words. He had become a good friend, someone who was close enough to me that I told him secrets. This had not changed.

What had changed was the way I looked back on our encounters. I knew Pritchard well as a person, as a character. He was brash and abrasive, and cared little for interpersonal relationships. He was smart and unselfconscious about it – some might say arrogant. His snarky words often hid the fact that he cared, leading others into believing him to be cold. I knew all of this, but I knew little _about_ him. I knew how he liked his coffee – with just a splash of milk – and I knew that he was probably as insomniac as I was, but little else. I didn’t know anything about his family and friends or his past, his interests or hobbies. In hindsight, a lot of the false animosity between us was my fault, because I never cared to learn more about him.

That he apparently was such a blind spot in my general vision not only made me an idiot, it also rendered the entire situation tragic.

As I logged the number, appearance and state of the people walking in and out of the various warehouses I was tasked with observing, I thought of Pritchard’s voice in my ear. His cynical criticism – always pointed and the opposite of sugar-coated, but honest and constructive. The way his hands looked, meshed with mine.

It soured the taste of tobacco on my tongue up to the point that smoking didn’t console me anymore. It sharpened the sting in my chest until it pierced my heart.

I had wasted a friendly soul, crushed it repeatedly – knowingly or not – and now I saw no way out. Pritchard hated me, for real this time, and I couldn’t even blame him. I hated myself for it, too.

The first couple of times I got a message from him, indicating that I had done my job and could move on to the next one, I hoped, against all hope. I perked up at the little box appearing on my computer screen, rushing through the sparse few words in search for something … something more familiar than the cold, analytical instructions that glared at me every time. A friendly jab, a sarcastic comment about hovering on rooftops like Batman, or just anything that would make the messages sound less like they had been sent by a computer. Something that would tell me that Pritchard took the time to type those few lines and thought about me, even if it was just for work, even if he cursed my name doing it.

But there was nothing. The words were clinical and cold, impersonal. Every time I hoped, and every time I felt crushed afterwards. Yet I had no right to feel that way. I had been the one to hurt him. He was in no way obligated to extend more than common courtesy towards me. Not even that.

So I contented myself with mentally composing letters of apology. In the end, they helped me self-analyze my reaction, and while it wasn’t an excuse, it all boiled down to a series of truths that caught in my mind.

The first truth was that I believed Pritchard. I knew he cared for me – he had proven as much with his unwavering support before and after Panchaea. If he said his feelings were deeper than mere friendship, then I had to believe him.

The second truth was that I had not been in a place to accept his affection in that moment. Thinking about it in silent solitude had changed me, but when I offered Pritchard my friendship, my heart had not yet healed enough from my time with Megan. First, the pain of our separation had all but crippled me. Second, believing her dead and grieving her caused the wound to fester. Third, finding out she was actually still alive, and that she had experimented with my DNA and chosen her research over me – over us – had been the final blow. Those factors were partly why I destroyed Panchaea and chose to die. Coming back, surviving, had left a vacuum where all this love and hurt had been before.

The third truth was that there was space there now. Pritchard confessing his feelings for me had burst that bubble, and while it was still raw and new, I was almost certain that it could grow into … something.

But I would not allow it. Not for as long as I had not made every effort to repair what was left between me and Pritchard.

So on the evening of our monthly group meeting, one after another everyone filtered into my apartment. I greeted them with handshakes and hugs, smiling to hide the nervous anticipation quivering in my chest. Everyone came – everyone except Pritchard.

“He said he’s out of the country on a Fed job,” Farida told me offhandedly.

I was shattered. There went my only opportunity to truly apologize, to make it up to Pritchard. Every other possibility I had discarded in favor of confronting him here, tonight. And now he wasn’t coming.

I mastered the night with strong drink and lots of cigarette breaks. I noticed the others staring, wondering, but I didn’t let them ask. Every time someone tried to interrogate me, I made up an excuse to change the topic or leave the room. Deep in the pit of my stomach a ball of fury and shame mingled into something so toxic I nearly choked on it by the end of the evening. Eve had left early, and Nia and Monica said goodbye so hastily I wondered whether they were afraid of me. Faherty didn’t act any different, however, and Haas and Cindy only had eyes for each other, so they probably never took notice of my mood.

Faridah, however, was like a dog with a bone. All evening she’d thrown me increasingly worried looks. It came to a head once we were the only ones left.

“Another?” I pointed at her empty bottle of beer.

“Thanks, Jensen, but I’m good.” She tilted her head, watching me curiously. “Are you?”

“What? I’m fine. What makes you think- …” I trailed off weakly when her stare suddenly steeled, gaining a kind of heat I had only ever seen in her during firefights.

“I don’t know exactly what the fuck you did to Frank, but I lied. He’s not on a Fed job, and he’s certainly not out of the country. At least not that I know of. He’s gone AWOL, Jensen, no one has heard from him in almost a month. And as a friend, I’m seriously concerned about you both.” She put her beer bottle aside and crossed her arms sternly. “So you’re either gonna tell me what you did, or I’m gonna force it out of you. I don’t care what it takes, but I will get to the bottom of this. I won’t let your little animosity ruin all of our friendships.”

I groaned and rubbed my face with both hands. The metal was cool on my overheated skin, and the darkness allowed me to hide from Faridah’s heated glare, but I could only hide for so long.

“He told me he … he liked me.”

“Okay.”

I looked at her incredulously.

“You knew?”

“Yeah, it’s not like it was a secret. Wait. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, you didn’t know. Jensen, did you seriously _not know_? I thought you were a cop.”

“How was I supposed to know he liked me?” I shouted. “I thought he hated my guts.”

“So what did you do?”

“I … might have told him … to leave.”

“ _What_?”

In winced, steeling myself for Faridah’s fury. She had risen from her seat, and with the gleam in her eyes and her battle-ready stance she looked like a spirit of vengeance. I couldn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it, spy boy. At least, apologizing to _me_ won’t do any good.”

“I know I have to do something, but I don’t know what. I thought maybe I’d talk to him tonight, but- …” I made a gesture that encompassed the room. “Just writing a message is a dick move, and I don’t think I can dredge up enough courage to go see him. If he’s even at home.”

“I think that’s the only option you’ve got now.”

“Yeah.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t know what to do. What if he doesn’t forgive me? What if- …?”

“You gotta try. It’s all you can do,” she said, looking at me with pity.

“I just … I don’t want to take advantage of his affection for me. I don’t want him to forgive me just because of that. I want to be his friend, but … offering that to him might hurt him even more. And that’s what I’m trying to avoid, actually.”

Faridah hummed and nodded.

“So you do care about him too.”

“Of course.”

I caught the edge of her smile in my peripheral vision.

“What?”

“Nothing. You better get going though.”

Well. No use in waiting.

X

Since I didn’t have a car, Faridah was kind enough to drive me to the apartment complex where Pritchard lived. The city was quiet, the streets empty, which shortened the tip tremendously, even though Pritchard lived on the outskirts of Detroit.

Pressure mounted, leaving me jittery and with my heart pounding in my throat by the time Faridah dropped me off with a smile and wink.

“Go get your boy, Jensen,” she said and sped off before I could think of a witty retort.

The elevator ride up was pure agony. All I could think about was different scenarios of how the following conversation might play out – if Pritchard was even home, or if he opened the door to me at all.

I didn’t give myself time to hesitate before ringing the doorbell. Whatever happened now, it was in the hands of fate.

“-t was fast. I wasn’t expecting …. Oh.”

We blinked at each other for a few seconds until I regained my bearing.

“Pritchard. Frank. May I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”

He blinked a few more times before stepping aside. I started talking before either my courage left me or Pritchard could say something that would lead to my courage leaving me.

“I just wanted to apologize. For the way I … how our last conversation ended. I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t want to give you the impression that I wanted nothing more to do with your or that I was repulsed by what you said about … about how you felt.” I paused, with my back to Pritchard and the door – staring at the apartment in front of me unseeingly. But I couldn’t meet Pritchard’s eyes either. “I’m not good with emotions. It took me off guard. That’s not an excuse, I know, but so much as happened lately that I can’t really process, and- …”

“Let me stop you right there.”

I stiffened, as if bracing for a physical blow. But it was only a hand on my shoulder. Half of it I only registered as pressure and warmth on the extensions of my arm’s augmentation. It felt overwhelming.

“Jensen. Come on, look at me.”

Slowly, I turned, wishing I was cowardly enough to hide my cybernetic eyes behind my shades. Like this, I had to blink a few times to stop the CASIE mod from jumping in, and nothing kept me from noticing all the little movements on Pritchard’s face anyway.

“Just … I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “I needed some time alone. To think. I didn’t mean to send you away like that.”

He was struggling with himself, his brow furrowing before it smoothed out again, a nervous tic in his jaw. Only his hand remained steady.

“I want to be angry with you, I really do,” he finally said.

“So you’re not?” I tentatively asked.

He barked out an unamused laugh and stepped away, letting his arm drop.

“I couldn’t even if I really wanted to. I was actually glad, you know. That you let me run away like a goddamn coward.”

“You’re not a coward!”

I reached out to grip his elbows, imploring him to look at me – to see that I meant it, that I was earnest. That he had become something of a cornerstone for me, more that I was willing to admit. That I needed him, in whatever capacity. I willed him to see this, hoping, believing that he could feel how important he was to me. Even without the CASIE mod on I saw the muscles around his eyes and in the corner of his mouth relax, and a second later he was returning my grip, encasing us both in a half-hug.

“That’s nice of you to say. And I appreciate you coming here to tell me that, but- …”

But. Yes, always but. I braced myself for Pritchard’s words of rejection and looked away.

“It’s just that I was packing,” he quickly said, continuing even more rapidly when I tensed, “for the Fed job, they want me abroad. I wasn’t trying to flee, it’s the job. Not you.”

“Alright,” I breathed out and blinked a few times to clear my head. “Are they sending you far away?”

“Algiers. Data extraction on site.” Pritchard waved a careless hand and then placed it back on my elbow. “A routine job, nothing to worry about. Except for the twelve-hour flight, of course.”

“Of course.” I smiled wanly. “I should let you rest, then. Let you finish your packing.”

I let my arms slip through his grip and stepped aside to clear the path to the door, when Pritchard’s voice made me hesitate again.

“You … could stay the night, you know.”

I looked back over my shoulder, and there was a strange second of floating time, a pocket of eternity, in which there was a reflection of light from somewhere on the street that ricocheted off the building opposite. Pritchard had his back to me, and the yellow glow coated him like some ethereal blessing, outlining the hesitant angle of his spine and the way he instinctively leaned forward, center of gravity pitched for retreat. A second on the knife’s edge.

“If you want me to, I’ll stay.”

And he turned to look at me with a mischievous little smile that made my pulse race, and said: “You know, I could call them right now and tell them I can’t make it. That I’m going to miss the flight, for whatever reason.”

He stepped closer, closer, until I could feel his breath on my cheek.

“No one would miss me for … six days.”

“I would,” I whispered unthinkingly, letting my eyes drift shut.

“No you wouldn’t,” Pritchard chuckled, and he was so close now that I could feel it in my bones. “Because you are going to be with me, here.”

So I stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bites off fingernails*
> 
> I tried to make this conversation in the first block a bit like social boss battle, with Adam having to say the right things - but also the things that are true to what he feels, and still get Frank to get him into the Juggernaut Collective. It was very hard. Because these boys do not communicate well. Also, how the f*ck do you Janus? I don't know. *throws references at you*
> 
> The next parts of the series will hopefully contain some of the Juggernaut Collective people and some TF29 guys/gals as well. All I'm gonna say is: GET READY MCREADY!
> 
> This was a SOB to do, because I got hit by the Batman train midway through. Hype for DX:MD is coming though, and I've been re-playing HR with the commentary on for the last couple of days to get back into it. Also, the eidos soundwave page with the MD trailer soundtracks holyy ... Still, chances are you won't hear from me again until the game's out. In the meantime, comments and kudos and bookmarks are love, and love is a writer's food!

**Author's Note:**

> I have some ideas for further installments, which would take place closer to DX:MD and will probably involve Alex Vega and/or Taskforce 26. The second chapter of this one is almost done. However, I'm a Master's student and therefore very busy with that particular load of work. (Or supposed to be. Ahem.) Those who know me, also know I'm a slow writer, and I don't always finish what I started. Don't sue me.


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